DABDA
by Mr P Nightime
Summary: A humorous little fic about grief over a professor's death. Reposted to fix the title and massive format errors, because Word hates Shun-chan. No pairing . . . YET!


SHUN-CHAN'S NOTE:  
  
Hellooooo! This fic is the answer to the first challenge posed to me by Ginger Snaps, my scrumptious partner in crime. GS and I comprise Mr. P Nightime Enterprises, and the two of us each pose fic challenges to the other at certain times, after which you lovely people will get to read them both on this here site. The challenge Ginger gave me this time will be revealed at the end of the story, since this particular one gives away quite a bit of plot. Read, review, and enjoy Chapter One! If you're looking to archive any of these fics now or in the future, please e-mail us first. And just in case . . . I don't own Harry Potter or any of the rest of it. But you knew that, right? ^^ Go Quest!  
  
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Whatever Professor Sibyll Trelawney had been in life, everyone agreed on one thing after the fact--it was a true seer's death.  
  
This isn't to say that she died gazing into her crystal ball, or face down on a Oujia board, or even while drinking her eighth cup of rather strong tea for the sake of some suffering student's leaf-reading grade. Sibyll Trelawney died in the way many do and many more hope to--in her sleep. They found her the next morning, cold and peaceful, and some great wit had observed that in death, she seemed less ghost-like than ever. They may even have gotten a laugh, if it hadn't been noticed at that precise second that her favorite crystal ball, "Boris," had been covered rather messily with one of her own discarded black velvet robes. This, of course, spurred the question no one could believe they hadn't yet thought of:  
  
  
  
Had she seen her own death?  
  
  
  
And so, a true seer's death it was, in that it was the source of much speculation and mealtime banter despite the underwhelming circumstances. Professor Trelawney would have been proud. Indeed, an interesting clause was found in her last will and testament, regarding the fate of her numerous notes and diaries . . ..  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Hey, Harry! Check this one out! I think I may have found it."  
  
"Hmmm." Harry Potter leaned over Ron's shoulder and peered at the mess of chicken scratch dated "10 October," pushing his glasses up his nose wearily. "Let's see. 'Ebon lightening strikes the spot/Steel becomes jelly and is reduced to shaking/The dawn brings revelation and pain/7 steeds ride the night current.'"  
  
"Well? See, I say the bolt or whatever could be her mortality, and the steel could be her life force, and we DID find her in the morning."  
  
"Ron . . . are you sure this wasn't written the night before the house elves tried serving us those lamb meat tacos?"  
  
Harry's best friend made a face and turned away, possibly to stifle a laugh, but probably not. Loath as he was to admit it, Ron had been affected in his own way by Trelawney's death and the revelation that she may have had some warning that it was going to happen. Deep down, there was some guilt there, as if Ron's faking of his homework assignments had somehow contributed to his teacher's ultimate fate. Harry watched him silently turn the diary entry-if it could be called that, really-over and over in his hands, staring through it blankly. It took a firm hand on his back to startle Ron out of his reverie. Dumbledore smiled down at him fondly and squinted at the page.  
  
"Ah, so you've found the legendary October 10th entry. We've already cross- referenced this one to October 13th, actually, and determined that both were relating visions of the, er, 'Great Black Olive Scare' earlier this year. Good work, though-it was a vague one."  
  
He began to leave, but Harry stopped him. "'Great Black Olive Scare?' You mean when Draco picked the olive off his pizza and hurled it at her during lunch that one day?"  
  
"The minds of seers work in mysterious ways, Harry." Dumbledore gave him a wink and moved away across the room, stepping delicately over the hordes of students sprawled on the floor, lazily scouring the late Professor's notes for information about her death . . . or better yet, about You-Know-Who. Harry slumped back to the floor, and found himself utterly unable to focus; the words, illegible enough under the best of circumstances, squirmed on the pages like very cryptic and melodramatic hamsters.  
  
"I'm done, Ron. I'm totally done."  
  
"You read my mind."  
  
"Oh, really?" Harry mimed scribbling on his hand. "The student becomes the teacher/The red sky signals a new era/Time for bored kids/To go do something else."  
  
"Veeeery funny. Game of Exploding Snaps?"  
  
"You got it. I want to go ask McGonagall about the homework we have to make up for missing her class today to do this crap, though. You go ahead, and I'll meet you, okay?"  
  
The boys went their separate ways, cheered a bit by the prospect of spending their first hour or so out of the tiny, smoky room since the crack of dawn. Harry turned toward McGonagall's room and sped up a bit, eager to get this conversation over with. It was for that reason that it took him a full minute to realize what he'd seen sitting on the floor in the hallway after he'd passed it.  
  
When he did, he turned on his heel and raced back along the corridor, wondering to himself what on Earth Hermione might have been sobbing about.  
  
  
  
(To be continued . . .) 


End file.
